A Sewing Day

But first I walked around the block, did my daily yoga, watched CBS Sunday Morning ("slow news for old people," according to DIL1; I do love her, she cracks me up), then read the paper.  The red day lilies are blooming like crazy.  I wish they'd bloom longer but each flower only lives one day and when all of the buds have opened, they're finished.  *sigh*  I love the color, the blend of orange-y red and yellow looks amazing next to the green leaves.



Then I headed downstairs for the rest of the day and into the evening and got what I'm calling the Pineapple Swimsuit done.  I used a couple old Stretch & Sew patterns that I've used a bunch of times before so the construction was familiar and I even remembered a couple shortcuts. I tried it on and the top isn't as roomy as I'd hoped, the overskirt part is a bit snug but it's wearable.  As a first draft or prototype it'll do.  I want to redraw the overtop pattern pieces to see if I can make the next one fit my mental picture.  It's a good thing I unearthed that bin of swimsuit fabric last winter.  I even have lining fabric and elastic.  I will sew up the two Dresses no. 1 that are cut out first, though.


Tomorrow is the first day of Camp NaNoWriMo.  Instead of plunging into another 50,000 word manuscript during the month (like regular National Novel Writing Month in November) I've set a goal of writing 30 hours in the 31 days of July.  I figure that way I'll finish/redo the Seaview outline/timeline and get a bunch of scenes written to fill out the word count of the manuscript to bring it up to what publishers want.  

30 June--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon.

"Let us give each other a sign of peace," the priest intoned near the end of Mass.  "Peace be with you."  He turned to each altar attendant and shook their hands and then stepped out from behind the altar to greet those in the front pew.  The congregation stirred to life, murmuring, "Peace be with you" to everyone in their vicinity.  It’s still a surprise to see women servers, I thought.  I miss altar boys and their high sweet voices calling the responses, but I suppose if the Church can move with the times, I can too.

            It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and I was glad to be sitting in the relative silence of church.  As I had every year for the last five, I had spent the day at Clara and Hank’s with, as Clara said, all their “in-laws and out-laws.”  They were a rowdy and gregarious bunch and I know Clara liked having an extra pair of hands and the use of my oven to bake her green bean casserole and candied yams in.

            I felt a tap on my shoulder as I disengaged myself from a rather suffocating hug from old Miss Simmons with her cloying violet toilet water.  Where does she find the awful stuff? I wondered.  I bet she distills it herself.  I scolded myself, not very nice church thoughts, Gail.  I turned to see who had tapped me and came face to face with Abel Baker.  He had his hand extended and said, "Peace be with you, Mrs. Logan."  I gave him my hand and responded in kind.  "Are you staying for the fellowship after the service?" he asked.   Before I thought, I answered yes.  A satisfied look settled on his face as I turned back to the Mass.

I could have kicked myself for speaking before thinking.  I was not in the market for another man in my life.  It had taken me eight years to move from being Bert's wife to the place I was now.  Changing the way I dress, cutting my hair and, most of all, taking up watercolor had finally opened my eyes to the endless possibilities of life.  I was not interested in another husband or even a boyfriend, for that matter.  I had a feeling if I was the least little bit nice or encouraging to Mr. Baker he'd take over my life in a heartbeat and I'd be right back where I started, living my life for everyone but myself.

I briefly considered making a quick getaway as soon as the final hymn began but had somehow gotten trapped between Miss Simmons and her niece, Ella, who took forever to get out of the pew and make their way down to the Fellowship Hall, and Ruby Tilden and her brood of six children, the youngest a babe in arms and the rest going up in one year steps to the eldest, Jeremy.  It took Ruby and her husband Jim an eternity to gather up all the baby paraphernalia, toys and snacks she brought along each week to try and keep them happy for the hour of Mass.

I was so distracted I was surprised to hear the beginning chords of the recessional hymn fill the church and the rustle of parishioners slipping into their coats and tucking the weekly bulletin into purses or pockets.  It always amused me that the voices of the congregation were much stronger singing the ending hymn, as if people were excited to leave.  Or maybe it was just that they were an hour more awake?  Leaving church after Mass with that beautiful music in my ears never failed to uplift me and send me home feeling good for the entire day, but not today.  All that was on my mind was how I could gulp a cup of Sister Terese's delicious coffee without scalding my gullet, say hello to a few friends, and get out of there without encountering the looming charm of Mr. Abel Baker.  Maybe I'd introduce him to Ella.  She'd been a widow for years longer than me and maybe she was in the market for a bossy squire.  Her late husband, Alfred, had been a pale, nervous man who jumped whenever Ella said jump.  Maybe Ella was pining for a masterful man who could make her swoon.

The mere thought of Ella Marshall, a formidable woman dressed perpetually in shades of gray which made her look even more like the battleship her height and girth suggested, swooning over a man gave me the giggles.  Which earned me a stern glare from Miss Simmons and a wink from Ralph Krinkle, the local butcher who imagined himself the Lothario of the county, leaving his pew across the aisle, his hand cupping the elbow of an overdressed woman I assumed to be his latest conquest.  Must be from the city.  No one around here would wear what looked like a dark blue satin cocktail dress and a little pillbox hat with a veil to Mass anymore.  Those are uncharitable thoughts, Gail, I thought, and in church too.  Aren’t you trying to be less judgmental?  I murmured a quick apology to the Blessed Mother and said a Hail Mary, hoping to appease God and whatever saints happened to be looking down.

As I passed the pew behind mine, frustrated at the stately progress of Ella and her aunt, a hand connected to an arm in a dove gray suit took my hand and I looked to see Mr. Baker thread my left arm through his.

“I was afraid you would try to avoid me, Mrs. Logan,” he said.  “I'm looking forward to sharing a cup of coffee and something sweet with you.”

Unable to think of a quick response to his remark, I concentrated on trying to untangle my arm from his, but he had his hand over mine and refused to let go.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Baker,” I finally squeaked out, “I seem to have developed a splitting headache during Mass.  I think I'll go on home and lie down.  I'm sorry.” 

Just then we emerged into the church vestibule and I slid between the people chatting in groups, opened the door, and set off across the parking lot toward my car.

           “Mrs. Logan,” Mr. Baker said from behind me, “allow me to walk you to your car.”  And this time the gray-suited arm slipped around my waist. 

I couldn't see a way to escape without making a scene.  I was sure to be the topic of gossip all over town all week long, judging from the number of hawk-eyed women who glared at me as I drove out of the lot and made my way home, wishing for a cup of Sister Terese’s coffee and a little lemon bar.  Darn that Abel Baker.

I can't believe that today's the last day of June.  That means that half of 2019 is over, finished, finito.  Boggles my mind.  It was so humid today.  I was glad that I hopped up and walked my lap around the block before 8 o'clock because it was hot and sticky enough then, I wouldn't have wanted to be out huffing and puffing my way around in the midday heat.  It even rained for a short time around noon which I'm sure only added to the humidity.  Thank god for air conditioning.
--Barbara